


Flourish

by hannahrhen



Series: Good, Giving, Game [21]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Service Kink, Service Submission, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever this was, whatever Loki was doing, it didn’t fit into the rest of their play, the flipflop of domination and submission they’d worked out between them. And Tony knew he was gonna fuck it up big time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flourish

**Author's Note:**

> I always, ALWAYS wanted to end GGG with service submission, but as time went on and other fandoms and real life intervened, it seemed less and less likely. After rereading some of the older stuff this week, I thought, "Hell, I can do 1,000 words of this, and end the series the way I genuinely want to." 
> 
> So, good readers, here you are. I hope you enjoy it.

Tony was pretty sure the plate hadn’t been there a moment before. In any other setting, he wouldn’t have touched it, but--hey, let’s face it--Tony was used to things suddenly appearing in his own space.

One of the bots, sometimes, finding and depositing his phone at his elbow before he noticed it was missing. Or, when Pepper was looking after him, it was papers to sign, a tablet cued to a particular news article or stock performance, or emergency food just at the right time.

Tony glanced at the plate, then gave it a longer look. A smile. This wasn’t Pepper’s emergency food, which usually consisted of granola bars, hard-boiled eggs, and dried fruit. Oh, God, it was _so much better_ : This thick cream-colored plate, overlaying a creased white linen napkin, held the most perfect bear claw Tony had ever seen, and he considered himself a bear claw aficionado. The pastry was lush with almond filling and shining with glaze, and just looking at it was doing terrible things to Tony’s blood sugar and cholesterol, but--

Yeah, fuck it. He tore off one of the flaky toe bits and shoved it in his mouth.

God, yesss. He was halfway done with it, using the broken-off bites to collect up the bits and pieces that tried to escape, hoovering it up like he hadn’t eaten in--he checked the time--okay, hours. Anyway, he was halfway done with it before his brain came back online, and he thought of how this gift had ended up on his workspace.

Because this was new. _This_ was new. The nature of these small gestures, which had started up maybe weeks before, was unlike the programming he’d given the bots, or the worried, loving care he’d never deserved from Pepper, who’d bustled into his workshop or bedroom or office blowing out air in frustration or sniping at him about his bad habits, his inattention. All that was deserved, and usually designed to get him to act. To try harder. Be better.

Loki, though, was silent. Gentle, even. Leaving treats and performing strange little acts that were never mentioned during or after the moment. Not demanding. Not expecting.

Offering.

Weird, okay? It was weird.

It was Tony’s clothes laid out on the counter and nearby hangers when he emerged from the shower. Tony’s shoes pried from his feet and set aside when they were sitting together on the couch. Bandages carefully changed, ointment rubbed into the burns on his arm when he’d fucked up that last experiment big time.

During all of this, Loki drew almost no attention to himself. He’d said nothing, or slipped in and out using his magic or cat feet or something, like Tony’s own twenty-four-seven Santa Claus.

Tony sure as shit wasn’t going to break the silence.

After all, the bear claw was spectacular, and Tony? Tony was gonna fuck this up. Big time. Whatever this was, it didn’t fit into the rest of their play, the flipflop of domination and submission they’d worked out between them. And Loki, more than Tony, had flourished under their undefined system, taking control when he needed to, or when Tony needed him to. But also giving it up just as readily, and more regularly to be honest, the longer their games continued.

Because Loki was beautiful and eager in submission: on his knees, oh, yes, with a collar around his neck and ready to be made good use of. Teased and denied until Tony knew he was the only thing that mattered, that even existed in that millennium-old mind. Or submitting to Tony’s regular “punishments” for insolence or prankery, both of them hard and groaning after the liberal application of a palm or hairbrush to Loki’s sweet little backside.

They’d played at sir, master, professor, and worse ( ... better). But this, this silent service ... Tony didn’t know what to make of it, and that made him uncomfortable. Was it penance? Shame? Were they still doing that, the shame thing? Was either of them still owed that?

It made him uncomfortable, but--goddamn--was it wrong that he also _enjoyed it_?

Tony finished the pastry, thumbed a sliced almond up off the plate and sucked it into his mouth while nudging aside some rejected raisins. He left the plate where it was and tried the napkin, but the glaze was fused to his skin like super glue. He’d just wash his hands, see what Loki was up to, and--

And when he turned from the sink, Loki was right there with a hand towel. Tony didn’t even jump--just dutifully held his hands out, then held his breath as Loki patted them dry, finishing the task by squeezing Tony’s palms with long fingers. Tony looked him over, Loki’s dark hair loose and mussed, simple, half-buttoned shirt that trailed down his thighs, dark pants with hems rolled up over--oh--bare feet. That was nice. Loki’s face was soft, relaxed, his gaze fixed on their hands.

He looked peaceful. No penance--no shame. _This_ was what Loki was owed.

Tony was gonna fuck this up, but ... ugh. _He couldn’t help it._ So: “What is this?” He pressed his hands up a little, tried to salvage the situation by keeping his voice warm and low to match Loki’s demeanor. “What is it you’re doing, hm?”

Loki didn’t look up from where he still grasped Tony’s hands through the damp towel. His mouth curved a little into a smile, though. Not a terrible reaction. “Do you like it?” he asked after a moment.

Tony let out a breath. “Yeah.” He relaxed his hands, let Loki take their full weight. “I like it.”

At that, Loki stepped closer. He pulled the towel away, folded it--actually _folded_ it--and placed it on the counter just next to the sink. He turned back to Tony, meeting his eyes this time, and reached again for Tony’s hands. Skin touched skin, and Loki’s hands were cool and dry and, yes, gentle. The pads of his thumbs rubbed over the points of Tony’s knuckles.

“I like it, too.” He made a little sound of assent, like he was agreeing with himself. His eyes were bright. “And sometimes that’s all that matters. Don’t you think?”

Tony just nodded, a small little bob. Swallowed. Relief, that’s what it was, what he felt, and suddenly Tony really just wanted nothing more than to kiss and be kissed, to push himself inside those arms, dig his fingers into that shirt, be surrounded and--fuck, yeah--taken care of. Oh, God, he wanted it. Loki’s smile grew as if he recognized Tony’s intention, his desire, but before letting him act on it, Loki prodded, “You have a reception this evening.” He freed a hand and reached up to tug at Tony’s collar. “May I help you prepare?”

And Tony would have said fuck the reception, naturally, but ... He caught the hand, and pressed his mouth to the fine bones that feathered out under Loki’s skin. Being bathed, dressed, groomed--it had been done before, but never ... never like this. Later, maybe even tonight, Loki would be back to shoving Tony’s face into the pillow, taunting him with horrible (hilarious) names, making him writhe and beg and _laugh_ right in the middle of it.

But for now, Tony just said, “Yeah. I’d--uh--like that, I’d like you to do that,” and, tugging on Loki’s hand, took the lead.

**Author's Note:**

> This has spiritual siblings in [Bostock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1152616), a non-GGG Frostiron fic involving pastry, and, most notably, the [service submission fic I wrote for Steve/Bucky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1821967), long after I *wanted* to write it for Tony and Loki. If anything, the seed for this inspired that, like some kind of weird fic-author time machine.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. [Find me on Tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com) if you care to! I'm a little fandom-scattered right now, but still enthusiastic about pretty men. (Okay, talk to me about John Boyega, please.)


End file.
